Tishkel Every now and then, I’m reminded of one or two shenanigans from my childhood and it reinforces my belief that truly, the guardian angels assigned to children work overtime.
Little backstory to this: circa 2002. I’d somehow found myself afflicted with ringworm and thus, I became the class pariah. No one wanted anything to do with me, save one little girl. Karis, wherever you are in this world, I’ve never forgotten you.
That singular act is why when, two years later, I saw a boy in similar situation, I decided to become Voltron, defender of the universe. No, I didn’t know or understand what strange rash encrusted his caramel skin, but I didn’t need to understand; I just wanted to be the Karis in Arnold’s story. It was just so imperative that I ignored the jeers and warnings from my classmates who also, quite frankly, didn’t understand what had afflicted the poor boy. Anyway, madam saviour not only sat with him, but even went as far as touching said rashes, all to prove the naysayers wrong. Work nobody send me do, na him I do pass.
I’m not sure if it was days or weeks later, but guess who ended up with a strange rash? And the best part is, I’d completely forgotten and my Voltron encounter, so I wasn’t of any help to my worried mother trying to investigate the situation. The next couple of days are hazy in my memory, but they definitely involved Gentian violet (which left a permanent stain on the room floor) and subsequently, calamine lotion after a trip to the doctor’s office. Yes, I found myself looking like a wannabe babalawo and the spread didn’t stop with me, but managed to reach about four other individuals. Love is sharing, abi?
And that, ladies and gentlemen is how I got chickenpox. Yes, I’m shaking my head at myself too; join the club. It’s hilarious now, not so much then when my entire body itches like crazy from head to toe. Not when I had to take pictures in my calamine-lotioned nightgown because it was someone’s birthday (or maybe an anniversary; I can’t quite recall now). Especially not when my dad held my arms bound so I wouldn’t scratch the hell out of myself one particularly bad night.
Fun times, eh? Fun times…